I’ve got a little corner of the garden for all our departed animals. Some are actually buried there, others are buried in the garden of our old farmhouse in Umbria and so they are commemorated in our new garden with their names and dates on large stones.
The stones are a fairly new innovation, as in Umbria we made little wooden crosses for each of them until one day we heard a couple of farm-workers who were cutting the grass in the field behind the house saying “Look how many people there are in that cemetery!” We took the crosses with us when we moved, much to the bemusement of the Italian removal men.
While I had the paintbrush handy, I touched up the faded writing on some of the stones, each one making me remember the faithful pet concerned. There are twelve stones there now. Twelve animal friends come and gone. Some, like Birkana my wonderful Siamese cross, lived long lives. She made it until she was almost 21. The vet told me she was the second oldest cat he had ever treated.
Some lives were all too brief – like the two siblings of Jerry Lee and the surviving cat Jimmy – who were only six weeks old when a fox got them early one morning. As the mother cat was semi-wild I’d thought it better to leave her and the litter outside as it was nice sunny weather. She managed to drag the two male kittens inside through the cat flap (God knows how) where I found them mewing in the fireplace, but it was too late for the other two. I only found one little body, the other had disappeared.
I’ve planted bulbs and a rose by the stones, which are in a shady area under pine trees. I’ve put a home-made bench down there and sit and think about them sometimes. But we pass them every day when in the garden, so they are always being visited and are not forgotten. The cats often sleep down there and occasionally I see a little bird perched on one of the stones too. It isn’t a sad place, at least I don’t think so.